The Fool’s Ascension

The air inside the Vale estate smelled of blood and burning oil.

The battle had reached its breaking point.

Jarek stood at the base of the grand staircase, gripping his sword tight, blood dripping from its edge.

Across from him, Duke Orlan Vale remained at the top, flanked by his last remaining guards.

His expression was calm—too calm.

"Is this really the best you could do, Thorn?" Orlan mused, adjusting the cuffs of his fine coat. "Slaughter my men, storm my home, and still… you stand before me like a dog begging for scraps."

Jarek grinned, rolling his shoulders. "I prefer to think of it as collecting a debt."

Orlan chuckled. "A debt?" His gaze flicked to the bodies littering the floor. "You call this justice?"

Jarek took a slow step forward.

"Call it what you want, Orlan. But I'm walking out of here with your seat."

The Duke sighed, shaking his head. "You truly have no idea what you're stepping into."

He turned to his guards.

"Kill them."

And then—

Chaos erupted.

A Fight for the Throne

Orlan's elite guard moved like ghosts—fast, silent, deadly.

Jarek barely had time to raise his blade before the first assassin lunged.

Steel flashed.

He dodged left, parried—then countered with a brutal kick to the ribs.

The assassin stumbled.

Jarek struck.

One down.

But the others were just getting started.

Sylva danced between two attackers, her twin daggers a blur.

One enemy lunged—she sidestepped and slit his throat in one smooth motion.

Tobias fought two at once, deflecting a flurry of blows with his daggers. "This is getting ridiculous!" he shouted.

Jarek wasn't listening.

His focus was on Orlan.

The Duke watched from above, unmoving.

Waiting.

Jarek narrowed his eyes.

No way Orlan was just standing there for fun.

And then—

He saw it.

A shadow moved behind the Duke.

Jarek's heart slammed against his ribs.

A Fight for the Throne

Orlan's elite guard moved like ghosts—fast, silent, deadly.

Jarek barely had time to raise his blade before the first assassin lunged.

Steel flashed.

He dodged left, parried—then countered with a brutal kick to the ribs.

The assassin stumbled.

Jarek struck.

One down.

But the others were just getting started.

Sylva danced between two attackers, her twin daggers a blur.

One enemy lunged—she sidestepped and slit his throat in one smooth motion.

Tobias fought two at once, deflecting a flurry of blows with his daggers. "This is getting ridiculous!" he shouted.

Jarek wasn't listening.

His focus was on Orlan.

The Duke watched from above, unmoving.

Waiting.

Jarek narrowed his eyes.

No way Orlan was just standing there for fun.

And then—

He saw it.

A shadow moved behind the Duke.

Jarek's heart slammed against his ribs.

The Duke's Last Trick

Orlan was stalling.

Jarek saw the assassin too late.

A crossbow hidden in the rafters.

Jarek barely had time to shout—

TWANG!

The bolt flew straight for his chest.

His body moved on instinct.

He twisted—just enough.

The bolt grazed his ribs, tearing through flesh.

Pain exploded through his side.

Jarek stumbled, clutching the wound.

"That," Orlan murmured, "was your only warning."

Jarek gritted his teeth.

"Then I guess I won't be giving you one."

He charged.

Thorn vs. Vale

Orlan didn't hesitate.

He drew his own blade—an elegant rapier, forged for precision.

Jarek met him at the top of the stairs.

The first clash rang through the hall.

Orlan moved with the grace of a seasoned duelist.

Jarek fought like a man who refused to die.

Blade met blade, sparks flying.

Jarek pressed forward, his strikes brutal, relentless.

But Orlan was fast. Too fast.

His rapier danced through Jarek's defenses, leaving shallow cuts along his arms.

"You're strong," Orlan admitted, "but strength alone doesn't win wars."

Jarek's smirk was bloody.

"Good thing I'm not alone."

And just like that—

The doors burst open.

The Final Blow

Jarek's reinforcements flooded in.

Orlan's remaining guards were overwhelmed.

Sylva, Tobias, and the rest of Jarek's men pushed forward, taking the grand hall for themselves.

Orlan's eyes widened.

He knew.

It was over.

Jarek saw the shift in his stance—

The moment his arrogance turned to desperation.

And that was when he struck.

With a roar, Jarek knocked aside Orlan's rapier and—

Drove his blade straight through the Duke's chest.

Orlan gasped.

Blood bloomed from the wound.

Jarek leaned in, voice low.

"That seat's mine now."

With a final push, he drove the blade deeper.

Orlan shuddered—then collapsed.

Dead.

The Throne is Taken

The hall fell silent.

Orlan's men dropped their weapons.

Jarek stood over the fallen Duke, blood dripping from his sword.

It was done.

He turned to his men.

And raised his blade high.

"Rookhaven is ours."

A roar of victory shook the walls.

Jarek Thorn had won.

But ruling?

That was a whole different battle.